


c r a v e

by epsilonargus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Draco, M/M, Past Torture, Veela, Veela Draco Malfoy, Veela Fest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-25 17:14:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6203932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epsilonargus/pseuds/epsilonargus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘You are pushing me away to what, protect me? You’re lying, Draco, and worse, you’re fucking lying to yourself. You’re scared. You’re scared of wanting me.’ He laughs, hollow. ‘Godric, why do I have to go and fall in love with a bloody Slytherin?’ -- A story in which Draco is too scared to reach out for what he wants. Featuring Veela!Draco.</p>
            </blockquote>





	c r a v e

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank my beta, Diana - I know this version is a lot different from the one you read and I really appreciate you sticking with me even though I'm clearly terrible with deadlines. Also, thanks to the mods for giving me an extension! :) And thank you, snowgall, for your awesome prompt! The story turned out a lot different from your prompt, but I hope you'll like it anyway. I hope the rest of you guys will enjoy reading this story as much as I had fun writing it <3

**_\- one -_ **

 

Potter sits alone in the corner of the pub, hands wrapped around a beer bottle. He’s scanning the crowd impatiently, occasionally casting a _Tempus_ to check the time. Draco stands in the shadows near the pub’s entrance, cold hands shoved deep into his pockets. The sight of Potter is like the soothing whisper of storm-cooled air at the end of a muggy afternoon.

Draco arrived late on purpose, thinking that Pansy and Greg will already be here so there won’t be a chance of him being alone with Potter. He sighs. He’ll have to continue waiting outside then. Just as he’s about to leave, Potter turns and spots him.

The dark-haired man breaks into a brilliant grin, raising a hand in welcome. Draco’s heart stutters. The pain beneath his skin sears, rendering him insensible for a few seconds. He takes a deep breath, choking back the emotions clawing up his throat, and walks over.

Potter is smiling. ‘You’re late, Malfoy. A round on you.’

‘Pans and Greg aren’t even here yet,’ Draco points out, shrugging off his cloak and taking his seat. ‘Besides, we’re not late, you’re simply early.’

Potter makes a face. ‘I’ve been waiting for an hour, you prat. Oh, and Pans and Greg aren’t coming.’ He sounds too casual, the ruddy stain on his cheeks a dead giveaway. He hurries to explain, stumbling over his words. ‘Pansy has a date with Ginny and Greg is held up at work – one of the Thestrals is giving birth.’

‘Oh,’ Draco says, unease twisting his guts.

Merely being in Potter’s presence is agonising. Draco can’t stop himself from being too sodding _aware_ of the other man. It doesn’t matter if they are ten millimetres apart or on opposite ends of a Quidditch pitch. Draco is a compass and Potter is his true north. He has to keep his hands clenched on his lap to stop himself from reaching out.

Potter is watching him with some anxiety. ‘You don’t have to stay. You can go – I’m fine drinking alone.’

‘That’s rather maudlin, isn’t it?’ Draco replies. ‘I’m already here, Potter. I’ll stay, mustn’t let our hero be lonely.’

Potter smiles uncertainly. ‘It’s all right really, you don’t have to stay. It’s not like – well, we don’t any time alone just the two of us, have we?’

No, because Draco won’t allow it. It’s too dangerous. He forces a smile, his fingernails digging into his palms. ‘No time like the present then.’

‘Great!’ Potter breaks into a sudden grin, one of those blindingly genuine grins that cut Draco like a knife.

Draco does his best not to bend under the weight of the crippling pain ripping into his back. He meets Potter’s eyes – an impossibly warm gaze directed at _him_ – and exhales shakily.

_Merlin, save me from this man._

But there is no hope for him. He is already lost.

 

* * *

 

 

**_\- i -_ **

 

Snape stood between Draco and Dumbledore. The ancient wizard slouched against the rampart wall, his baggy robes snapping in the wind. Fierce blue eyes shone out of a pale, wrinkled face. Even cornered, defeated and betrayed, Albus Dumbledore had an indomitable force of will.

So Draco was horrified to hear Dumbledore beg: ‘Severus … please …’

The Headmaster hadn’t pleaded even when Draco was pointing his wand in his face; he hadn’t considered Draco a genuine threat. The world held its breath. Draco could feel the other Death Eaters twitching in the shadows behind him. Yaxley’s words rang in his head: _Draco’s got to do it._

Dumbledore’s mouth moved. Draco and Snape, who was blocking the view of Dumbledore from the rest, were the only ones who caught the words he mouthed. _Do it._ Before Draco could think, Snape raised his wand and pointed it at Dumbledore’s chest. His hand was shaking.

‘ _Avada Kedavra!_ ’

The green light shot out of Snape’s wand and hit Dumbledore squarely. As the great wizard was thrown backwards, Draco saw the light go out of those brilliant blue eyes, saw the creased face go slack. Dumbledore’s body sailed over the battlements and into the darkness, dead before his body would even hit the ground.

Snape was already shoving Draco along. ‘Out of here, quickly.’

His godfather – Dumbledore’s killer – kept his iron grip on Draco’s upper arm, hauling him down the stairs. Behind them, the other Death Eaters hooted and clamoured, their grotesque cries echoing through the tower.

_Dumbledore’s dead._

Out in the corridor, McGonagall and the other professors were battling the rest of the Death Eaters. Snape held onto Draco, brandishing his wand, and pulled him headlong in the fight. Somehow, they escaped out at the other end unscathed; the other professors seemed to think Snape was on their side. Draco caught a glimpse of a Weasley’s fiery hair before Snape dragged him round the corner.

_Snape killed Dumbledore._

They fled through never-ending corridors and down endless flights of stairs. Screams and shouts echoed through the school. Draco struggled to breathe through burning lungs, praying that he wouldn’t trip, pleading for everything to _stop_.

_Snape killed Dumbledore because I couldn’t do it._

They were out on the lawn, the night dark as pitch around them. Draco could hear the half-giant oaf roaring in fury. A jet of red light fired over their heads. Snape spun around, growled, ‘ _Potter_ ,’ and shoved Draco ahead of him. ‘ _Run, Draco!’_

_I couldn’t do it._

Draco turned back and caught sight of Potter pelting towards them. Merlin, Potter was a wretched sight: his face white as bone, his lips stretched into an unholy grimace. He looked as if someone had smashed a hole in his chest. Draco felt something wrench within him. Potter didn’t know that Dumbledore was dead.

_The Dark Lord swore Father would be forgiven if I kill Dumbledore. I failed. I failed._

Coward that he was, Draco turned back around and ran towards the gates. Potter screamed something, his words ripped apart by the wind and the sound of the castle collapsing behind them. Snape was shouting.

Draco ran.

_The Dark Lord is going to kill us all._

 

* * *

 

 

**_\- two -_ **

‘What would you like to drink?’ Potter asks.

‘Red wine.’

‘Sure, I’ll be right back,’ Potter says with a smile.

Draco takes a deep breath to steady himself. He rolls his shoulders, trying to relax his tensed muscles. He can do this; he can spend some time alone with Potter without completely losing it. He has managed it well enough so far, hasn’t he?

It’s close to impossible for Draco to avoid him, what with Potter being friends with most of Slytherin House. Also, Pansy and Greg work with him at Potter Employment: the company Potter set up to help witches and wizards find work in both the wizarding and Muggle worlds.

Greg was Potter’s first customer. In the early days after the war, Greg – a Slytherin and a well-known Voldemort sympathiser – was hexed and beaten in broad daylight in Diagon Alley. Potter came barrelling into the fight, screaming at the assailants in fury, picking Greg up and sending him to St Mungo’s. Three days later, he turned up on Greg’s doorstep, announcing that Potter Employment could help him.

Draco heard most of this through the constant letters Greg and Pans wrote him. Throughout the five years he was gone, they wrote him regularly, even sending presents for his birthdays and Christmas. This, despite Draco’s infrequent and sparse replies.

He returned to Britain because … well, this is still home, isn’t it, and Mother said she wanted to be buried with the rest of the Malfoys. Narcissa Malfoy was safely interned in the ground next to her husband and three months later, Draco is still in the United Kingdom.

‘Here you go,’ Potter says cheerily, setting the wine glass before Draco.

‘Thank you.’ Draco takes a fortifying drink.

‘How’s your week been?’ Potter leans forwards on his elbows, smiling again.

Draco sits back. Potter is close enough for him to catch a whiff of Potter’s cologne.

‘It was okay,’ Draco says. ‘I spent most of my time cataloguing the things we have in store. There are quite a few antique pieces I can sell, some of them dating back to the third century. Those should fetch a few Galleons.’

‘ _Third_ century?’ Potter repeats sceptically. ‘How – oh, right, magic of course.’

‘My ancestors knew some very good preserving spells,’ Draco says. ‘Interested in looking at them, Potter?’

Potter makes a face. ‘I’ll pass, thanks. I have enough of old creepy Dark magic heirlooms from the Black house.’ He catches himself and adds hastily: ‘Not that _your_ stuff are Dark magic, of course, Malfoy!’

The war yawns in the space between them, a bottomless canyon of broken rocks waiting for them to say the wrong thing and break into irretrievable pieces. Draco forces a smile and shrugs. ‘The Dark artefacts were already removed by the Ministry after the war.’

‘Right, of course,’ Potter says hurriedly.

Silence clunks into place between them. Draco looks down, taking another sip of wine. Around them, the pub twirls with the merriment of a busy Friday evening. Friends heckle each other to guzzle more beer. Colleagues whine over wine.

‘Have you started looking for a flat yet?’ Potter asks abruptly.

‘A flat?’ Draco blinks at him, bemused.

Potter is looking down at his beer, picking at the damp label. ‘Yeah. Pans said you’re currently renting.’

‘Oh … I’m not looking to buy a flat,’ Draco says, still puzzled.

‘You’re not?’ Potter looks up. ‘Why not? It’s cheaper to buy in the long run, isn’t it? Even with the bank loans. If Gringotts is giving you any trouble over loan applications because of – your past, let me know. They can’t discriminate against people like that.’

‘No, it’s nothing like that,’ Draco assures him. ‘I’m just … well, I’m not sure if I’m going to be here for long.’

Potter’s bottle tips over, spilling beer over the table. Swearing, Potter grabs the bottle and waves his wand, sending the liquid spiralling back into its bottle. Draco didn’t even need to use the paper napkins. Potter’s magic scrapes against Draco’s skin, raw and rough as sandpaper, a reminder that Draco is incapable of even a simple cleaning spell.

Sometimes, Draco thinks of his transformation as a stillborn phoenix rebirth. Where the firebird pops out of the ash as a whole, healthy creature, Draco is still soot, hopeless and useless – utterly bereft of wizard magic.

‘You’re going back to France?’ Potter demands, staring wide-eyed.

‘I might,’ Draco says carefully.

‘But … _why_?’ Potter screws up his face, his jaw clenched tightly.

Draco takes a drink, considering. _Because, Potter, being in your presence is a constant torture. Because seeing you eats away at my self-restraint and I’m afraid of losing control and giving into the temptation of taking you – I can take you by force if I wanted, you know, Potter. Because I_ need _you more than I need air and I am wasting away because I cannot have you._

He says: ‘I like France a lot.’ The words unsaid sears in his chest.

Potter stares at him for a few seconds. ‘There’s someone back in France, isn’t there?’

‘What?’ Draco frowns, perplexed. Potter can’t possibly be thinking he had a _lover_ or something waiting for him in France, could he? No, Potter doesn’t care. He _can’t_. ‘I … I suppose, in a way, yes.’ Colette, his Veela benefactor, has been writing him long rambling letters, whining at him to visit and to bring his mate along.

‘Oh.’ Potter’s hands on the table clench into fists. ‘I see.’

Draco takes another drink. The warmth of the alcohol spreads down his throat and through his body, easing some of the aches and pain. The incessant itching beneath his skin ebbs. He focuses his attention on Potter.

‘So … how was your week, Potter?’

‘Busy,’ Potter replies with a distracted air. ‘We’re in talks with the Ministry to provide Muggle job training to agencies like the Aurors and Muggle Liaison – you know, those who would come into contact with Muggles the most.’ Potter is tearing the label into shreds.

‘That’s interesting,’ Draco comments. ‘I hadn’t thought it possible of the Ministry to be so forward-thinking.’

‘Kingsley _is_ making changes,’ Potter says a little defensively. ‘The Ministry moves so slowly because … well, it is a huge organisation and we British love sticking to our traditions.’

‘It’s a good thing we have you and Granger stirring the pot up then, isn’t it,’ Draco says teasingly. ‘You a champion for Slytherins and those who need second chances. Granger making waves in Magical Law Enforcement. Pansy is rather afraid of her you know.’

Potter gives a bark of laughter. ‘Because Pans is always Drink-Disapparating. Mione would lecture her for hours if she finds out Pansy did it again.’

Draco chuckles. ‘Like Pans would care.’

Potter stares at him for a few seconds too long, his eyes intent on Draco’s face. When Draco meets his eyes quizzically, he flushes and looks away, rubbing the back of his neck. Draco takes a sip, fingers tight on his glass. _For Merlin’s sake._

Potter has to stop looking at him like that. It simply isn’t fair. Potter shouldn’t be allowed to look at Draco as if … as if he likes what he sees.

Potter has moved onto to tearing up the napkins. ‘When are you going back to France then?’

Draco finishes the rest of his wine before replying. ‘I don’t know,’ he says truthfully. ‘When I am done here, I suppose.’

‘Yeah? A few more months then?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Hm.’

The silence is awkward now. Draco looks around the pub helplessly, searching for something to talk about. It isn’t as if they don’t have anything in common. Morgana, it takes only a few conversations to realise that they have similar interests and tastes and sense of humour. But Potter seems determined to be difficult tonight.

Seeing how cheerful everybody else is doesn’t help one bit. Draco glances at Potter, who is scowling down at his beer bottle. Draco can’t think if he has said something to upset him. Is it his criticism of the Ministry? He doesn’t think so; in the early days after the war, Potter was the loudest critic of Ministry policies.

He sighs. So he will have to make the effort then. ‘Have you ever been to France?’

‘No.’ Potter still won’t look at him.

‘Well, you should. It’s a beautiful country and it’s right next door so there’s really no excuse not to,’ Draco says.

He chatters away inanely about the places he had been, the food he had eaten. Eventually, to his relief, Potter looks up. The dark-haired man props his chin onto his palm, asking a few questions but otherwise seems contented to let Draco prattle on. His eyes are the warm gold-green of sunlight in a forest clearing and Draco feels a responding twinge in his chest.

Potter’s left arm stretches out across the table, his knuckles a hair’s breadth away from Draco’s. Draco can feel the warmth of the other man’s hand, his skin tingling in anticipation. He moves his hand away.

‘Does Pans and Greg know that you’re going back?’ Potter asks.

‘Not yet, but I think they suspect it,’ Draco admits.

‘They’d be upset.’

‘Yes … I’ll miss them.’

They lapse into momentary silence.

Then: ‘I don’t want you to go.’

  

* * *

 

 

**_\- ii -_ **

 

His bedroom blasted open. ‘No more hiding, nephew!’ Aunt Bellatrix shrieked. ‘Your master beckons!’

Draco was sitting on the edge of his bed, his arms wrapped tightly around himself. He jerked when his aunt entered his room. Mother came in behind her, her regal face pale and drawn. Their eyes met and Draco felt her despair reach for him across the room, cold and clammy.

Bellatrix led the way. Mother walked next to Draco, her ice-cold hand tight on his arm. Familiar corridors stretched out endlessly into the darkness, shadows coalescing into the leering figures of the Dark Lord’s servants. As they passed the Green Drawing Room, a blood-curdling scream burst out from beneath their feet; Draco jumped.

‘Filthy coward,’ his aunt snarled, spinning around and raising her hand to strike him.

‘Touch him, sister, and I will hex you,’ Mother said coldly, stepping in closer next to Draco.

Bellatrix scowled, lowering her hand. ‘We shouldn’t have let you marry Lucius. Look at the coward he beget!’

‘Draco is no coward,’ Mother’s voice was calm and arctic; her grip on Draco’s arm was tight to the point beyond pain. ‘He is _my_ son and a Black is anything but a coward. Wouldn’t you agree, sister?’

‘If he’s no coward, he would have killed Dumbledore and saved us from this bloody mess _your_ husband got us into,’ her sister hissed, her hand flashing out and shoving Draco in the chest.

His mother’s hand, tight on his arm, wouldn’t let him stumble. Bellatrix scoffed and stormed away. Not looking at Mother, Draco straightened up and followed.

They were waiting in the Formal Drawing Room, which Mother had only used once fifteen years ago to receive a visiting Italian countess. The Death Eaters stood against the panelled walls, cloaked in black robes and shadows. A single figure stood in the middle, in front of the Dark Lord sitting in a high-backed winged armchair.

The isolated figure turned when they entered. It was Lucius, his face swollen and bleeding. The Dark Lord was examining the second wand he held in his hand. Bellatrix led Draco and his mother to Lucius and they waited.

Draco wouldn’t look at his father. He _wouldn’t._ He –

He glanced at Lucius from the corner of his eye. His father wasn’t even looking at him. Lucius was looking at his master, his fear naked beneath the weeping cuts and pus-filled lumps. His side profile was hard and sharp as ever, the same view Draco had grown up with.

‘Draco,’ the high, cold voice said and Draco’s mingled fear and exhaustion and rage and disappointment tangled and snapped, leaving him empty and frozen.

He looked up. Lord Voldemort was examining him like he was a piece of furniture he did not particularly care for. Like something to be discarded before it became an eyesore.

‘You have disappointed me,’ the Dark Lord finally said. ‘You have proved yourself to be as weak and stupid as Lucius. How unfortunate for you that the tasteless adage “Like father, like son” should prove true for you.’

It was amazing, how emotionless Lord Voldemort could sound. The man Draco had pledged himself to was a creature carved out of black ice and sandblasted with diamonds.

‘Do you have anything to say for yourself?’

He didn’t. Lord Voldemort knew he didn’t. Draco couldn’t squash the fury that burned through him, fierce and hot and consuming. The _fucker_ was toying with him. The fucker was _toying_ with him. He didn’t realise he had stepped forward until his mother yanked him back and he caught the surprise on his lord’s snake-like face.

 _No._ Fear, an ice-cold touch down his spine.

The surprise disappeared, an ice floe disappearing into the Antarctic Sea. Lord Voldemort raised a hand, bent a long, white finger. ‘Jackson.’

Pressed to his right side, Mother stiffened. Draco could feel the gasp she stifled.

A man broke out of the shadows, hurrying to his master’s side. Draco recognised him: an Unspeakable who had been spying for them. Jackson had provided some very useful information for the break-in to the Department of Mysteries last year.

‘You mentioned you would like a pureblood to assist in your experiments,’ the Dark Lord was saying to Jackson. ‘Will Draco do?’

Jackson turned. Draco caught a glimpse of a thin dark face and shining silver glasses.

‘Oh, _yes_ , my lord. Draco Malfoy will do very well. A pureblood like him is just what I need. I will show you, my lord, I will prove to you that magic can be extracted, can be transferred. This will _prove_ that those filthy Mudbloods stole their magic,’ Jackson had a reedy voice made higher by fervent excitement. ‘ _Thank_ you, my lord.’

‘ _No_!’ Mother cried out and the room froze.

Draco stared, his stomach clenching, his chest hollowed out with terror. Mother had thrown her arms around him, clutching him to her as if afraid he would dissolve before her eyes. She was staring at Lord Voldemort, her blue eyes large and shining on her thin white face.

‘ _No_ ,’ she said again. ‘No, my lord, please no, please not Draco please.’

‘Cissy!’ Bellatrix snapped, her face twisted in fear, in rage. ‘How dare you disobey our master?’ She twisted around to face her lord. ‘My lord, she does not mean it – she is feeling unwell – she doesn’t mean it!’ Her tone was beseeching.

Lord Voldemort raised a hand to stem her stomach-turning flood of words. ‘How touching,’ he said dryly. ‘Truly, there is nothing like mother’s love.’

The Dark Lord’s face contorted briefly in demented rage. Draco felt the fear deep in his bones, the primeval desperation to flee.

‘Let us put it to Draco. He is turning seventeen soon, isn’t he? Almost a man,’ the Dark Lord was derisive. ‘Well, now, Draco, you have another chance to save your family. Will you assist Jackson in his experiments?’

When Draco did not answer because his tongue was stone and his words were trapped in a vacuum, Lord Voldemort raised his wand and pointed it at Draco’s mother. ‘ _Cru_ –’

‘ _YES!_ ’ Draco’s scream tore out of his throat. ‘Yes, yes yes I will serve, my lord, I will, yes.’

‘ _No_ , no no nononono, Draco, _no_ ,’ Mother was crushing him to her, her icy façade broken into shards, tears slipping down her cheeks. ‘My son, my son, my _son_.’

Draco forced himself to step away from her, feeling as if he might choke on the fragments of his heart. Mother fell to the ground, Bellatrix abusing her filthily as she wept. Draco followed Jackson out of the room, the sound of his mother’s wails wrapped around his throat, sharp as thorns.

 

* * *

 

**_\- three -_ **

 

Potter babbles when he’s nervous. ‘I mean, _we_ don’t want you to go. Pans and Greg and everybody else, including – including Seamus, you know, you know he’s taken a liking to you – oh, not _that_ way because he’s with Dean, but – but I don’t mean you’re not like – that people can’t like you that way – I just – I mean – I mean … I don’t know what I mean …’ Potter trails off, looking miserable, his face a brilliant red. He looks down, running a hand through his hair.

Draco feels hot and itchy looking at the flush that spreads from the tip of Potter’s ears and all the way down his neck. His heart is in his throat and his words are lost phantoms.

‘I … I don’t want you to go,’ Potter says again, simply, clearly. He looks up and his eyes are hard, gleaming emeralds. ‘Don’t go. Stay here.’

Draco wants to look away but Potter’s eyes are impossible to turn from. They are molten and intense, heated with an emotion Draco must be imagining. It is unreal. How can Potter be saying such things?

‘How many drinks have you had, Potter?’ he asks, glad that he manages to sound cool and in control.

The other man’s face falls. Draco’s stomach twists. He feels just a bit nauseous for causing Potter to look as if Draco had ripped apart his favourite Pygmy Puff.

‘I’ve had two before you arrived,’ Potter mutters, his hurt disappearing behind frustration and disappointment. ‘But I’m not _drunk_.’

‘Sure, you’re not,’ Draco says equably. ‘Excuse me. _I_ need another drink. Would you like one more?’

Potter is scowling down at the table. ‘No,’ he says through gritted teeth, not looking at Draco.

Draco manages to walk away without looking back, the touch of Potter’s eyes burning into his back. He slips between crowded tables, dissolving into the soothing chatter. He heads for the loo, locking himself in the last stall and sinking onto the toilet bowl.

He leans against the cool tiled wall, his eyes closed, taking deep gulping breaths. For fuck’s sake, it’s just like Potter to say such things without any thought of the consequences. _Don’t go. Stay here_. His traitorous brain chimes in: _with me._

Walking away when every inch of his being screams out to claim Potter is like having his skin peeled off inch by torturous inch. Draco scrunches up his face, suppressing the swell of impotent rage, his palms jammed against his eyes.

How he fucking wishes he can hate Harry sodding Potter.

His heartbeat is roaring in his ears, his heart palpitating in his chest. The pain is flaring up across his back, triggered by the heat of his emotions. He has to calm down; he cannot break down here, not in public and certainly not anywhere near Potter. He cannot have Potter try to save him again.

Draco breathes in deep and slow.

Like how he has done during the worst of it in the dungeons when his bones hurt too much for him to sleep, he begins cataloguing the pains of his body.

The worst of his agonies: two lines on his back, slashing down in an upside-down V. The skin is smooth there, no outward sign of trauma. The pain is deep down in his bones, a hot ache that throbs with every movement.

Slightly more bearable: spiralling out, down his arms and legs, scratches he inflicted on himself in his sleep, trying to get at the constant _itching_. It’s the physical expression of a body that no longer recognises the magic – or lack thereof – in Draco’s blood. He always feels like ants are swarming beneath his skin, and nothing – not potions, creams or Muggle pills – can stop it. The scratching leaves ugly scabby scars, but at least the sharp pain is better than the incessant prickling.

The least of his pains: his wrists and ankles, thick with scar tissue, where the shackles cut repeatedly into his skin. On the bad days, he can still feel the cold, heavy irons pulling him back into the darkness and he feels like he might suffocate.

He is calm now, his chest cold and hollow, his heart a dead thing. Certain now that he can face Potter without feeling as if he may die from the yearning, he leaves the loo.

He turns towards the table, his new drink firmly in hand.

A stranger has joined Potter at the table: another man, brunette, his head tipped back as he laughs uproariously, a hand on Potter’s upper arm. Potter is laughing too, his face bright and shining.

A monster claws its way through Draco’s chest, roaring its fury and jealousy, leaving him breathless. He staggers, bumping into someone, his wine sloshing over the edge and onto his fingers. A drunkard apologises with friendly cheer, gently pushing him back onto his path.

Draco withdraws into the shadows, his trembling hand reaching behind. His fingertips touch blood, hot and slick, and, clutching the edge of a feather between his first finger and thumb, he pulls the feather out from beneath his skin. He gasps, collapsing against the wall. _Fuck!_

All Potter was doing was chatting with another bloke – and Draco’s instinctual reaction is to transform into a bird-headed monster. Potter will be the death of him.

Here’s the unavoidable truth: Draco Malfoy is a Veela.

Here’s the second truth: Harry Potter is his mate.

  

* * *

 

 

**_\- iii -_ **

 

The iron-studded wooden door swung open soundlessly; all the doors in the Malfoy Manor dungeons were well oiled. Draco didn’t bother lifting his head. He had only just found the comfortable position where his head could rest on his bicep without his neck aching too much. He kept his eyes closed and listened, the glow of a lit wand tip burning through Draco’s eyelids.

Jackson’s footsteps: a rapid clicking against the stones, accompanied by the urgent murmur of his clothes brushing against each other.

A second set of unfamiliar footsteps. They were slower, faltering, the sound of long robes dragging behind their owner.

Draco managed to eke a modicum of curiosity and looked up cautiously. He squinted against the glare of Jackson’s wand, making out Jackson’s spare, austere figure and behind him, a taller figure draped in oversized black robes. Jackson pointed his wand to the side and Draco saw that it was Snape.

Even after four months, Draco couldn’t suppress the hope that rose in him, irrepressible as champagne bubbles. He was amazed that he still capable of hope after four months during which his mother never came for him, when it seemed the darkness had seeped into his pores and settled in his blood and he knew he could never be free of it.

The chains holding him sitting upright against the cold slimy walls clinked as he involuntarily jerked, hands clawing, swollen mouth gaping wordlessly.

‘There, you see? The boy is well enough,’ Jackson said impatiently, glaring at Snape.

‘ _Well_ enough?’ Snape repeated, his words ice-cold. His eyes were two shining pools of black in the reflected light of Jackson’s wand, somehow more opaque than the surrounding shadows.

‘Yes, the chain is for his own protection,’ Jackson continued. ‘The other subjects killed themselves when we gave them longer chains – strangling. Draco is doing remarkably well, compared to the others. This shows the purity of his blood – the strength that flows in his veins that make him capable of withstanding the extraction spells. He hasn’t died even when we tried the most experimental spells on him.’

‘Hasn’t died,’ Snape repeated dully.

 _Kill me, kill me, kill me._ Draco couldn’t get the words out, his mouth too raw and painful. He couldn’t be sure he even remembered how to talk. He managed a low grunting, the chains clinking as he moved with greater agitation.

 _Kill me like how you killed Dumbledore. I understand now, Severus! I understand – Dumbledore wanted you to end his pain too, didn’t he? Dumbledore was in pain – I recognise that look in his eyes now, I_ feel _it. I feel it, Severus. Kill me too, Severus, KILL ME!_

‘Yes, well, as you can see, you have nothing to worry about,’ Jackson chided; he sounded petulant. ‘You really needn’t go to the Dark Lord for this. Now you can tell him there is nothing to worry about and the experiments are going well.’

Snape stood still, thin, straight and silent. A loud crack shot through the darkness from above Draco’s head and his arms were released. He collapsed, the chains clattering loudly. He lay there, his arms trembling, so close to the ground the smell of his piss and shit was acrid in his mouth.

‘What are you –?’

‘ _STUPEFY!_ ’ Snape shrieked and the force of his spell blasted Jackson well across the cell, slamming him into the wall.

Jackson collapsed onto the ground, a puppet without its strings.

Snape knelt onto the cold hard stones beside Draco, his hands gentle and shaking as he murmured healing spells rapidly under his breath. Draco tried to tell to him that it was pointless, that he was too broken to be fixed but his words were still lost and he could only think of the pain twisting in his bones.

‘Damn him, _damn_ him,’ Snape hissed. ‘Fucking Potter, _fuck_. Fuck, I would have taken you away otherwise, Draco, my godson, _Merlin_. _FUCK!_ ’

Snape slashed his wand to the right, rending the air apart violently; the wall in front of him cracked, the floor shuddering.

_You don’t need to take me away. You can kill me right here, Severus!_

Another figure appeared in the open doorway. Snape rose to his feet, gently laying Draco’s head onto the ground. Draco watched through half-lidded eyes as Snape argued with Yaxley, who had clearly been sent to make sure Snape hadn’t made a mistake.

Yaxley shoved Snape in his chest, sending Draco’s godfather sprawling across the floor filthy with Draco’s blood and shit. Snape was shaking, his hands clenched into fists, his long greasy hair hiding his face from Draco’s view. The burly Death Eater stormed into the cell, hauling the unconscious Jackson to his feet.

‘Filthy coward,’ Yaxley spat, kicking Draco as he passed. ‘ _Rennervate!_ ’ He shoved Jackson out of the cell. ‘Come along, Snape! Young Malfoy failed the Dark Lord, just like his father and mother had, and like them, he must pay. Don’t be stupid and try to do something for him – _nothing_ can be done for him! Come _on_!’

Snape got to his feet slowly, painfully. He wouldn’t look at Draco.

‘Severus,’ Draco’s whisper was hoarse and painful; he tasted blood in his mouth.

His voice was a weak shattered thing in the enveloping darkness. Snape froze for a moment, but when Yaxley called again, he made his way to the doorway. He still wouldn’t look at Draco. Draco spat out a mouthful of blood.

‘Severus,’ Draco’s voice was louder this time. ‘Kill me.’

Snape turned to him, his wand raised. His face was fixed in a rictus of agony, his mouth stretched open into a hideous grimace, his eyes an impenetrable inky darkness. Draco’s heartbeat was thunderous in his ears, his mouth wet with hot blood. He closed his eyes in anticipation. Instead, at the murmur of a spell, the chains lashed themselves back to the wall, tightening, pulling Draco back.

Draco’s eyes shot open. Snape was already in the doorway, the light from the corridor disappearing behind the dwindling gap.

‘ _NO_!’ Draco screamed. ‘NO, DON’T LEAVE ME HERE LIKE THIS. _KILL ME!_ KILL ME!’

Snape paused. ‘I’m sorry, Draco,’ he said, his words empty and meaningless.

The door closed with a quiet _thunk_ and Draco was alone. The shadows rushed in to fill the space briefly occupied by light, shifting and roiling and closing over the top of Draco’s head.

 _Like them, he must pay_.

Draco thought of his mother – of strong, beautiful, flawless Narcissa Malfoy – in pain and screaming, writhing on the floor like an augurey which wings were being slowly ripped off, and the pain he thought he was used to, that he could no longer feel flared up, blinding and breath-taking.

When Draco regained his breath, he gave in to the pain simmering in his blood, in his bone marrow, and screamed. The darkness rushed down his throat and he was choking, choking …

 

* * *

 

**_\- four -_ **

 

Leaning against the wall, Draco staggers away from the main room. He finds a narrow service corridor and stumbles into a storeroom crowded with old furniture. He drops down heavily on a heavily stained bench.

Cursing, he struggles to regain his composure, the bloody feather crushed in his fist. Circe’s fucking pigs, he has been doing _so well_. It is indisputably foolish for him to hang around Potter when Potter is the greatest threat to his _Draco-Malfoy-is-still-a-wizard-not-a-Veela-move-along_ act, but well, Draco can always be trusted to be irrational when it comes to Harry Potter.

In sixth year, he thought having a crush on Potter was a disaster – a hopeless, lovelorn disaster. Now, as a Veela who can only have Potter for a lifelong partner … well, it’s still a disaster, a heart-wrenching, wretched disaster.

Draco laughed when the Healers told him what he had become five years ago. The Malfoys had always worn their pureblood status as a well-polished badge of honour. To think that a lusty Malfoy ancestor had taken a Veela for a wife! Not that Draco is complaining – that trace of Veela blood and magic is the only reason he survived the magic extraction spells, albeit with the side effect of his body completely adopting Veela magic.

He presses his knuckles into his forehead, taking deep steady breaths. He has to return soon; Potter will think he is avoiding him. The image of Potter laughing with that stranger flashes through his mind and the jealous creature in his chest roars again. He stifles a groan, reaching behind to pull out another feather, his back burning.

The door bursts open, Potter barging in with his wand raised. His eyes are wide behind his glasses, darting rapidly around the tiny storeroom before fixing on Draco.

‘What happened?’ he demands and his eyes land on Draco’s bloodied fist. ‘You’re hurt! Who hurt you?’ He rushes in, dropping to his knees by Draco’s feet.

Before Potter can touch him, Draco pulls back his hands, dropping his feathers beneath the bench, wiping his hands on his robes. ‘I’m fine,’ he says automatically.

Potter hesitates, looking up at him, green eyes narrowed. ‘You’re bleeding.’

‘Nosebleed,’ Draco says with great nonchalance. ‘I’m fine now. The bleeding’s stopped.’ Blood trickles down his spine. ‘Don’t worry.’ He rises from the bench, forcing Potter back onto his feet as well. ‘Come on. I still need to get that drink and I _was_ late, so I suppose I do owe you a drink.’

‘Malfoy,’ Potter tries to catch his elbow, but Draco sidesteps him, turning to look at him, the doorway behind him.

‘Thanks for looking out for me, Potter,’ Draco says with a light smile. ‘Come on, let’s get you that drink.’

He turns back around. Before he can take another step, the door slams shut, plunging them in tight darkness. Draco freezes. He can feel the heat of Potter’s body close behind him, anticipation and apprehension stirring between them, tangible as stone. He takes a deep, slow breath, the taste of dust and old wood heavy on his tongue.

‘Why are you avoiding it, Malfoy?’ Potter’s voice is ragged with emotion. ‘I see the way you look at me. You can’t … you can’t _not_ want me, but you … is it me? What am I doing wrong? Do you need me to say something? Do you need me to make it fucking explicit? Do you need me to tell you that I –’

‘I don’t,’ Draco cut across his words. He turns, backing away until he hits the door, pressing his shaking hands against the solid wood. He blinks, unable to make anything out of the darkness other than a vague black outline of Potter. ‘I don’t need anything from you, Potter. I think you’re imagining things. I don’t look at you in any particular way. I do consider you a friend, yes, because you’re friends with my best friends and we get along, but I don’t – I don’t think of you … in that way.’

Potter draws a deep shuddery breath. ‘Liar,’ he rasps and his wand tip lights up, flooding the tiny space with harsh white light.

Draco’s breath catches in his chest. Potter’s face is twisted in misery, his trembling lips pressed together, his throat convulsing as if he is swallowing all the vitriol he wishes he could hurl at Draco. A dagger twists in the middle of Draco’s chest, hard. He aches to reach out for Potter, to soothe away the frown on his face.

‘Why?’ Potter asks. ‘You want me – I can see it on your face right now. Why are you pushing me away?’

Draco opens his mouth. He means to lie again, he really does, because if he gives in, if he reaches out and takes what Potter is offering, he will only condemn Potter for the rest of his life and he cannot – _will not_ – do that to him.

He means to lie, but instead, Draco says: ‘Because I will destroy you.’

Potter’s eyes flash and he steps closer. Draco pushes himself back but he is already against the door and there is nowhere else to run. His heart is thrumming in his chest, his blood rushing in his veins.

‘Don’t,’ he says, his throat tightening, barely able to get his words out. ‘ _Please_.’

Potter drops the hand holding the wand, the light pooling at their feet. Shadows dip across the landscape of Potter’s face. He reaches out a hand. Draco turns his face away, closing his eyes.

‘ _Don’t_ ,’ he whispers. _Don’t. If you touch me, I don’t know what I will do. If you touch me, I will lose it, Potter, I swear I fucking will and you will be so afraid of the monster you unleash._ Don’t _touch me._

Potter’s hand hovers above the curve of Draco’s cheek, close enough for Draco to feel the heat, for his skin to tingle.

Potter’s voice is soft and insidious. ‘You are pushing me away to what, _protect_ me? You’re lying, Draco, and worse, you’re fucking lying to yourself. You’re scared. You’re scared of wanting me.’ He laughs, hollow. ‘Godric, why do I have to go and fall in love with a bloody Slytherin?’

His hand brushes Draco’s cheek and that touch and Potter’s words are enough. The Veela magic sings in Draco’s blood, his body heating up with the stirring of his powers. The pain – the constant pain he has endured unfailingly for the past five years – is already fading away. He can feel it – the power coursing through his veins, raw and unrestrained, triggered by Potter’s unwitting confession.

Those words so casually uttered have the Veela in him convinced that his mate loves him and now, Potter is bound to him.

Forever.

 

* * *

 

**_\- iv -_ **

 

Lucius seized Draco’s arm, pulling him away from Mother, shoving him forward. ‘Well, Draco? Is it? Is it Harry Potter?’

Draco blinked away the tears that kept springing to his eyes. After nearly eight months trapped in the dungeons, the soft glow of flickering candles in the drawing room seared against his eyes. His father had dragged him out of his cell, exclaiming that they had captured Harry Potter and it was all over, they were back in the Dark Lord’s favour, and wasn’t it marvellous, Draco, they were their lord’s favoured servants again!

Lucius wore the stench of alcohol like how Draco knew he smelled of blood and rot. His mother had stared at him when he staggered into the drawing room, unable to even weep. She had touched him like he was vapour already streaming through her fingers.

His father grabbed him by the back of his neck, pushing him harder. His knees buckled and Draco fell to his knees in front of the three people huddled in the middle of the drawing room. The Snatchers encircled them loosely, a few of them grimacing when they caught a whiff of Draco.

Draco wiped his watering eyes and stared into Harry Potter’s horrified green eyes. The other boy’s face was horribly swollen – probably the result of a Stinging Hex – but those eyes, oh, those eyes Draco would know anywhere. He glanced at the other two and knew Granger and Weasley knew he recognised them. He looked back at Potter.

Somewhere deep within the hollow of his chest, something cried out in recognition: a vile creature of shadows and hatred yearning to burst free. He could feel his body quivering, his bones aching and shrieking in agony.

The monster within Draco _wanted_ Potter; wanted to claim him for its own; wanted to devour him whole, rip into his skin and flesh, crack his bones and suck the marrow. Draco craved to possess Harry Potter and if he couldn’t have him, no one else should.

Potter must have perceived Draco’s insanity the way a prey instinctively knows a predator because he jerked away, eyes now filled with a different kind of terror. A knife twisted in Draco’s chest, driven in by this act of rejection. He didn’t want Potter scared of him.

‘Well?’ Aunt Bellatrix demanded impatiently from behind him. ‘Is he Potter?’

‘I can’t – I can’t be sure,’ Draco said, his voice hoarse with disuse.

‘But look at him carefully, look!’ Lucius shouted. ‘Go closer! Draco, if we are the ones who hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, everything will be forgiven –’

‘Wait a minute!’ one of the Snatchers interrupted. ‘ _We_ were the ones to find him!’

‘Shut up!’ Bellatrix sneered. ‘You have no right to speak _here_. I shall be the one to hand the boy over – _if_ it really is Potter.’

As they argued over who should claim the glory of handing a seventeen-year-old boy over to a psychopathic maniac, Draco stared at Potter, who stared back, unable to look away.

In the dungeons, Draco hadn’t been able to hold onto to anything that wasn’t pain. Looking at Potter now, the childish loathing he had held close to his chest – a flimsy protection against complicated emotions he would rather not consider – fell away, mere dust in the wind. They knelt across from each other silently, on the opposite sides of a war they couldn’t escape, both desperate and afraid.

  

* * *

 

 

**_\- five -_ **

 

Draco screams, slamming his hands into Potter’s chest. Potter gasps, falling backwards, tripping over a bench. His wand clatters to the ground, the light spinning around the room. Draco whirls around, kicking the door open, bursting out into the corridor. He shoves past a startled witch, who yells out angrily.

He runs blindly down the service corridor, making for the back door at the end. He escapes into the smelly back alley, gulping down chilly night air. He can hear Potter shouting behind him: ‘Draco! _DRACO!_ ’

He continues running, his mind blank with terror and despair. His skin is burning, but not with the pain he is used to. It isn’t wholly unpleasant; it feels like an awakening. His back is aching, the space between his shoulder blades tender to the touch. The monster within him is ready to take flight.

He can feel Potter following him. He didn’t think it’s possible that he can be any _more_ aware of Potter, but he is. The thread between them thrums, strong and true, leading Potter to him as surely as Draco feels Potter’s confusion and desperation. Draco is now privy to Potter’s emotions, tuned into every moment Potter should be afraid or tired or weary or sad. Colette said that this would make it easier for the Veela to protect the mate.

Disgust bubbles up in his chest, forcing him to stop. He leans over, a hand braced on the alley wall, gagging. He gave in to temptation; like always, he’s too weak to resist, to do the _right_ thing. The only way he can ever achieve something _positive_ is to stay away from Potter, to save Potter from the indignity of being _Draco’s bloody mate._

‘Draco,’ Potter grabs his arm. ‘Stop running away, for fuck’s sake!’

Draco wipes his mouth, turning around. Potter’s hold is as unyielding as iron, painfully tight. He looks winded, breathing heavily through his mouth, his eyes hard and flinty. Mingled with his confusion is rage.

Draco tries to take a step back, but Potter doesn’t let him. He holds Draco there in a cold dark alley, the night sky above them portentous with rain. Draco’s skin is on fire, the heat spiralling out from his arm where Potter touches him.

‘You don’t understand what you’ve done,’ Draco says, his voice strained. ‘You don’t know what I am.’

Potter takes hold of Draco by his other arm too. ‘I know what they did to you. Snape showed it to me.’ His voice is gentle, even if his eyes are obdurate. ‘I know about _Jackson_ ,’ Potter spits out the name like poison, ‘and how you no longer have magic … and what you’ve become.’

Draco opens his mouth, his stomach falling, his chest flooding with cold. He cannot say a word.

‘Snape was dying,’ Potter continues. ‘And he gave me his memories – of my mother, of you. He wanted to save you, you know, but he … he had to see his mission through. He had to help me defeat Voldemort. Otherwise … otherwise he would have taken you away that night he went to see you. He killed Jackson.’

‘… You knew from the start what I am?’

‘Yes.’

Draco feels the ground crumbling beneath his feet, his world shifting abruptly. ‘You should have stayed away.’

Potter holds him tighter, leaning in. His face blazes with determination. ‘It doesn’t matter that you are Veela. You’re … you’re important to me, Draco. I want you.’

Potter’s words are a heady rush to Draco’s head and he is dizzy with it. He knows Potter means it. Potter believes what he is saying. But he cannot. He simply _can’t_. As a Veela, Draco’s instinct is to protect Potter and he knows that Potter is safest away from him. Harry Potter is too good, too bloody brilliant for a pathetic worm like Draco. He cannot be tainted by the likes of a Malfoy; Draco won’t allow it. He _won’t._

‘Since you know that I’m a Veela, you should also know that it’s only my Allure working on you. You don’t really want me.’

Potter’s face twists in frustration. His voice is raw with anguish, his fingers digging into Draco’s arms. ‘Merlin’s fucking beard, you are fucking determined to push me away, aren’t you, Malfoy, you complete and utter _prat_. I _know_ , all right, I know that I’m your mate because I wrote to your mother.’

Draco’s world shatters around him.

 

* * *

 

 

**_\- v -_ **

 

Standing in the middle of the chilly courtroom, the eyes of the public on his chained form, Draco had all the freedom to look at Harry Potter standing in front of him, speaking to the Wizengamot on Narcissa and Draco Malfoy’s behalf.

It was two months after the end of the war and yet Potter still looked wretchedly skinny. He hadn’t been sleeping much and his eyes still carried that hunted, tensed look. He barely looked at Draco.

Draco stood there, the chains cold on his wrists, and stared at Potter’s thin, straight back. He looked at him and he listened to his voice and the monster within Draco purred. He had been cold for so long, it almost hurt to be warm again. _Potter’s mine!_ He had to bite down hard on his lip to stop the screams from spilling out. His back itched, the cuts searing along his back.

Potter turned and their eyes met. Draco was floored, his mind swept clean of everything except for the insistent thrum of longing. His heart was racing, his blood hot beneath his skin. He had to clench his fists, to force himself to stay still.

The next three hours were torture.

It was like reaching out to embrace a vast, cloudless night sky dusted with thick swaths of stars, knowing that he had the secrets to the universe in his arms, but being denied that one taste of pure starlight, the ineffable knowledge of what everything meant.

Draco was utterly helpless in how much he wanted Harry Potter, and he could not begin to understand it.

 

* * *

 

**_\- six -_ **

 

Potter says: ‘For the past five years you were in France, she sent me regular reports on how you’ve been doing. I wrote to her first, because I knew what happened to you and I wanted … I wanted to help. She told me how you refused to come back, to claim me as yours even though you’ll die if you don’t, you stupid berk. It took your mother’s death to bring you back – how can you be so stupid?

‘I’ve been trying … trying _so hard_ to get close to you. Pans and Greg were never invited tonight, you know. I had to scheme to think of ways to get you alone …’ He pauses, his eyes searching Draco’s face. ‘You hate it that much, having me for your mate?’

Draco closes his eyes, unable to bear the intensity of Potter’s gaze.

‘Look at me, Malfoy! At least have the decency to look at me as you reject me!’ Potter’s voice cracks. ‘You push me away even if you know you’d die. You hate the idea of being with me forever that much, Draco?’

Draco cannot bear Potter’s sorrow, which surges through him, bitter as wormwood. He opens his eyes, feeling his restraint break and fall apart hopelessly. ‘You cannot want me, Potter. Not someone like me.’

‘What –’ Potter’s face constricts, pain rippling through him. ‘Do you mean – are you pushing me away because … you think you don’t _deserve_ me? No, Draco, you – do you really think that?’

He stares at Draco, his eyes avid on Draco’s face. Draco’s words are stuck in his throat. He wishes he could run away, to be anywhere else but here in Potter’s hold.

‘You really think that,’ Potter’s tone is flat and dark.

His magic flares up, rough as sandpaper against Draco’s senses, and every streetlamp in the alley shatters, the glass tinkling down the ground in a shower. Alarmed shouts ring out, echoing down the alley. Potter pushes Draco up against the wall, the back of Draco’s head bumping against the brick painfully.

The other man leans in close, a dark scowl on his face. He is so close that every word he speaks pushes out against Draco’s lips as a breath. ‘Do you mean to say that you are pushing me away because you’ve put me on a pedestal? Because somehow, you fucking think that I’m what, _better_ than you? That you cannot _deserve_ me?’

He takes a deep breath; Draco can hear the tremble in his voice.

‘You’re so sodding _stupid_ I want to kill you, Malfoy,’ Potter says. ‘I’m not a hero, Draco. I’m only a man and I’ve made mistakes – first and foremost, not hauling your arse back to France five years ago – and I have regrets. I just … I want _you_ and I want to be yours. Let go of the past, Draco. You have nothing to make up for.’

He leans in closer, his eyes dark and molten. Draco feels Potter’s breath on his lips, his heart thundering in his ears, his stomach clenched. Fear and longing twist in Draco’s chest, hard.

Potter says: ‘Take me.’

 

* * *

 

**_\- vi -_ **

 

Draco straightened the sleeves of his robes, making sure none of his scars could be seen. Once more, he studied the plain black front door. He could hear voices and laughter within – the _Welcome back!_ party that was purportedly his. Harry Potter was in there. His stomach clenched tighter and he thought he might be sick.

He couldn’t do this, after all. He couldn’t be in Potter’s presence.

Laughter rang out once more and it tugged at the centre of Draco’s chest, a bittersweet, gently aching pain. He grimaced, clenching his fists. _Are you a fucking coward, Malfoy? Ring the bloody bell! Pansy and Greg are waiting for you._

Taking a deep breath, he pressed Pansy’s doorbell.

The door flew open immediately, as if the person had been waiting just on the other side of the door. Harry Potter beamed at him, looking too bloody fit, emerald eyes shining on a strong, handsome face.

‘Welcome back, Malfoy!’ he said, his smile dazzling.

Draco blinked. Something within him shifted, settling into place, and the knot in his stomach eased. He smiled back involuntarily, knowing in the joy humming in his blood that he was home.

  

* * *

 

 

**_\- seven -_ **

 

Kissing Harry is like flying into the sun: Draco is blinded and completely destroyed. His heartbeat pulses in his throat, its beat thrumming through Draco’s entire being.

Harry kisses him like Draco is a sculpture of crystal shards and cloud vapours, his hands tender on Draco’s face, his mouth warm and gentle. He pulls away after a moment, gazing wordlessly at Draco. He has to look up a little; Draco hasn’t noticed it before – that Harry is just a little bit shorter than he.

Draco’s hands are tight on Harry’s forearms, where he pulled Harry in without thinking, without expectations, only knowing that Harry told him to take him and Draco must. His skin is hot and too tight, but not painful; dear sweet Salazar and his snakes, he is no longer in pain. For the first time in five years, Draco’s mind is clear and he does not need to flinch away from that one part of his mind he keeps closed up, the part that threatens to shatter under the strain of perpetual torture.

‘Draco,’ Harry says, reaching up to brush a lock of hair back; Draco’s skin tingles.

Draco pulls away abruptly, causing Harry to frown. He slips his hand into Harry’s, tugging. ‘Come on.’

Harry hesitates. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Home,’ Draco replies.

They walk through the crowded streets, hands loosely intertwined. They are separately wrapped up in their own thoughts, fully aware of the other party, the heat of promise between their palms. Draco walks next to Harry, looking beyond the streetlamps to the cloudy night sky, the soft chatter of a crowd flowing against his ears.

He is not in pain.

He is _not_ in pain.

He is not in _pain._

The space between his shoulder blades itches, the ache in his bones now the yearning of wings to be set free. _Not yet_.

Draco looks over at Harry to find him looking at him as if Draco is the endless universe and Harry is interstellar. His breath hitches in his chest. Harry’s hand tightens around his, his finger stroking one of Draco’s knuckles.

‘I need to show you something,’ Draco says. He silently adds, _And we’ll see if you’re still looking at me like that after._

Draco rents a poky flat in the Muggle neighbourhood nearest to Diagon Alley. He doesn’t ask Harry to Apparate them there; Harry doesn’t ask to do so. They walk up the stairs, the sound of shouting and blaring tellies echoing around them.

Draco ushers Harry into the flat, a hand on the small of Harry’s back, a casually possessive gesture that sends a thrill down Draco’s spine. Harry looks around curiously, but the flat is still in its sterile and inoffensively pleasant state; he didn’t plan on staying long enough to mark his personality on the place.

They go into the living room, Draco switching the lights on as he went. The lights flicker a bit because Harry is here and the Saviour is, of course, a supremely powerful source of magic.

‘Who took these photos?’ Harry asks, examining the blown-up Muggle prints of the photographs Draco took that he likes best.

Draco didn’t develop them the wizarding way because … well, he’s not a wizard, is he? And there is a certain skill and difficulty to Muggle photography, when you are restricted to capturing motion in a still moment that Draco enjoys the challenge of.

‘I did,’ Draco says, standing in the middle of the worn rug, trying to gather the courage to do what he must.

‘You did?’ Harry says in astonishment, shooting him a surprised look over his shoulder. ‘They’re very good!’ Harry is examining a photograph of Colette in the forest: she is dressed in white filmy robes, forever caught in the act of twirling around, her mouth open in a laugh as she calls out to Draco.

‘Should I be offended that you are so shocked?’ Draco asks dryly.

‘No,’ Harry says, now looking at a photo Draco took in Mother’s last month; he doesn’t turn around, but Draco can hear the eye-roll in Harry’s voice. ‘Of course I’m surprised. You never said anything about photography. I’d be surprised too if Pans came and told me she’s an pro tennis player.’

Draco laughs and Harry turns. Harry is grinning, his eyes avid on Draco’s face, lingering on his mouth. As Draco’s laughter fades away, the silence gains strength, a storm gathering breath.

‘So … what do you want to show me?’ Harry asks quietly.

‘You say you know what happened, but you _don’t_ ,’ Draco says, shaking his head sharply when Harry opens his mouth to protest. ‘No, you’re listening to me now, Harry.’ Draco takes a deep a breath, takes a step back. ‘For sixteen years, I’ve been raised to believe in the superiority of purebloods – and I honestly believed it, I truly thought Voldemort was doing the right thing, that we purebloods deserved to be the rulers because we were the true wizards.’

Harry’s face is stoic, his lips pursed. Draco plunges on, even though the words burn his mouth like acid.

‘And when Father failed and I failed and I had to be punished …’ Draco shrugs. ‘I guess that’s the point when I started realising it was all bullshit. Every fucking thing was bullshit – pureblood, half-blood, Muggle-born – what the fuck did anything matter because people are people underneath it all and we are all fucking horrible creatures – look at what we can do to each other! Look at what _we_ did to each other.

‘The point is … The point is that I deserved what came to me, I deserved everything I got because the things I thought, the – the ideology I supported – it’s evil and _I_ was part of that – don’t you see? I deserved it, Harry, and I – I can _never_ deserve someone like _you_ ,’ Draco’s voice breaks and he looks down, pressing a hand over his burning eyes. ‘Not _you_.’

The moments stretch out between them: the space of a breath, or the length of a universe’s rebirth.

Harry’s hand is gentle on Draco’s shoulder. Draco startles, his head snapping up because Harry is shaking. Harry is looking at him as if his sky has shattered around him and the darkness is encroaching. He looks at Draco with an inscrutable plea in his eyes.

‘You don’t need to _deserve_ me,’ Harry says. ‘I love you even if you hate yourself – and I will love you until you love yourself too.’

Draco opens his mouth, but there is nothing to be said. What can he say in the face of such a bald confession? He shakes his head, shrugging off Harry’s hand. ‘I’m a Veela, Harry. Let me show you what that means.’

He pulls his robes off. Harry frowns, confused, worried. Draco unbuttons his shirt, revealing his bone-white torso, the single scar shiny on his skin. Harry’s face constricts a little at the sight of the scar he had caused. That scar is simple; Draco is a collector of scars where the newer ones become more exquisite and intricate as he goes along.

The shirt slips off and his arms are bare. Harry catches his breath, his eyes locked on the spider web of half-healed scabs and old scars on Draco’s arms. Draco continues undressing, pushing his trousers down together, revealing the network of scars curling down Draco’s legs.

The touch of Harry’s eyes is almost tangible, brushing against Draco’s ravaged skin. Draco squeezes his eyes shut briefly and releases the breath he has been holding, releases the control he has been exerting over the monster within him – and his wings rip out of his back, enormous and white.

The front of his face elongates, hardens, sharpens into the head of a raptor with an iron-grey beak. His hands transform into claws, cruel, blade-sharp. His body contorts, bending under the weight of his mighty wings. _This_ is what it means to be Veela.

He cocks his head, blinking his bird eyes at Harry, appearing for all like an inhuman beast. Harry holds his gaze, regarding him steadily, unflinchingly. Draco takes a step closer, filling the space between them with the dusty smell of wings and the musk of a predator. Harry tilts his head back, exposing his neck, his jaw set stubbornly.

Draco almost sobs in desperation. Is there no scaring this man?

No, of course not, not _Harry Potter_ , who went to Lord Voldemort, ready to die to save the lives of others.

Harry raises his hands, presses his fingers feather-light against Draco’s chest. Draco shudders, pleasure sparking across his skin. Harry reaches out a hand, hovering over Draco’s beak, and hesitates, a question on his face. Draco closes his eyes, knowing he is well and thoroughly conquered by this improbable man. He dips his head and Harry presses his palm to Draco’s ice-cold beak.

Draco dissolves into Harry’s touch, turning back into a man.

‘You can’t scare me, Draco,’ Harry says, brushing his knuckles along Draco’s jaw. ‘You’re right, there is no way I can completely comprehend what you’ve gone through – and I’m sorry if I’ve hurt for thinking that I can. And I can’t tell you when I started loving you – two months ago, maybe? I was already in the middle of it before I saw it for what it is. And I know you think what I feel for you cannot be compared to what you feel for me – don’t be a bloody prat, Malfoy, not everything has to be a competition between us.’

Draco snorts, opening his eyes. Harry is glaring at him.

‘You’re assuming again, Potter. Here’s a secret: as your mate, I can feel everything you feel,’ Draco says.

‘Yeah?’ Harry raises his eyebrows. ‘Then you’d know I’m fucking in love with you.’ He steps closer, slipping his arms around Draco’s waist. Draco shudders again at the touch of Harry’s hands on his bare skin.

Harry cocks his head, a challenge in his eyes. ‘So you admit it: I _am_ your sodding mate – and you cannot refuse me.’

Draco stares at him, feeling as if there isn’t enough air in the room. Above them, a neighbour is yelling at her brat for spilling Coke on the sofa. Outside the window, traffic trundles past, a ceaseless background noise.

There is a certain sense of unreality to the scene: Draco standing in his pants, Harry’s arms around him, the dark-haired man warm and pliant against him. Harry narrows his vivid green eyes, mouth poised to push Draco further.

‘Even before the fucking war, refusing you has never been an option, Potter,’ Draco says softly.

Harry laughs; his laughter is liquid starlight. Draco stares at Harry’s neck, pulls his eyes up to that beautiful jawline. He hesitates just a moment and then leans in and kisses Harry’s jaw softly.

Harry groans, dropping his hands to Draco’s hips, his fingers hot against the skin. Their eyes meet, Harry’s eyes molten with heat and desire. Draco’s stomach clenches, a heat stirring in his belly.

‘Looks like it’s you and me forever, Malfoy. Hope you’re not scared,’ Harry smirks.

Draco snorts. ‘Oh, I reckon I can deal with it.’

‘Yeah?’ There is a gleam of a provocation in Harry’s eyes. Draco almost groans aloud; Harry can be such a fucking tease.

‘Fuck _yes_ ,’ Draco whispers hoarsely. ‘Shut up, Potter, I’m going to kiss you now.’

Harry laughs, Draco’s chest flooding with light. Draco slips his hands behind Harry’s head and pulls his lover in.

Draco kisses Harry and Harry does shut up.


End file.
